


After Effects

by ASilvergirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Do not post to another site, Gen, John is a Mess, Magnussen is Dead, Missing Scene, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Now What?, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:48:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27217435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASilvergirl/pseuds/ASilvergirl
Summary: Here are two missing scenes following the death of CAM; they were posted on another site in December, 2014, almost a year after the airing of "His Last Vow".It was originally an early birthday present for 7PercentSolution, who is a 100-percent friend. With special thanks to the wonderful beta work done by Anyawen, who pushed me to be better.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 33





	After Effects

**Author's Note:**

  * For [7PercentSolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/gifts).



The hard, black stone was numbingly cold and it seeped into the core of John Watson, who had sunk to his knees in shock, subconsciously mirroring his friend. Stunned and confused, his dark blue eyes, wide with horror, continued to stare at Sherlock's back. John kept his arms raised but the weight of despair caused his shoulders to momentarily falter and drop, much as they had on that hellacious day in front of St. Barts. The seven steps of the patio loomed before them like a chasm, as the helicopter continued to whip ripples in the grass of the obscenely vast lawn, the turbulence as violent as the turmoil in John's stomach. The urgent commands—pleas—from the loudspeaker echoed in his ears.

With one bullet, their world and everything they'd fought for, was laid waste, utterly destroyed.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, not able to keep the panic out of his voice.

Black hair, Belstaff coat and blue scarf whipped around Sherlock, but the man made no move, no sound to signify that he'd heard. John watched numbly, aware of the six police surrounding them and of the marksmen's rifles trained on his friend. Three of the police advanced up the steps. One went to the fallen blackmailer whose head now lay in a pool of his own wretched brain matter; another kicked away John's gun that Sherlock had dropped after he'd fired; the third cuffed the tall detective, who offered no comment or struggle. 

John followed Sherlock's gaze and saw that the brothers' eyes were locked on each other. John frowned. To his physician's eyes, Mycroft appeared to be still feeling the effects of the sedative—the elder Holmes faltered as he exited the helicopter, then held tight to the door. John wondered if it was to steady himself or to prevent him from running to his brother's side. Mycroft's face was blanched, traces of the horrified expression still lingering. John couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he thought that if he could, it would break him.

Now, with Sherlock secured, John didn't protest when rough hands grabbed his wrists, twisting his arms behind his back, ratcheting up the pain in his left shoulder as he was manhandled into the awkward position. His right leg trembled, threatening to buckle as he was hoisted from his knees.

The sound of the rotors was dying now that the engine had been cut. It left an awful silence of the kind heard in the aftermath of shattered lives. The police led the two handcuffed men down the steps. As John came abreast of his friend, he called out to him again.

"Sherlock! What the hell—? Please, for God's sake, talk to me!" 

Sherlock turned his head away. Their comportment couldn't have been more different: John Watson's was violent, protesting; Sherlock Holmes' was docile, accepting.

Now shock creased the doctor's face as he realized that they were being led toward different police cars.

"No! No!" he shouted, fighting to pull away from the officers. "Sherlock!"

He lunged forward, managing to pull away from one man. The officer was on him in a millisecond. Still, John continued to struggle, desperation written in every movement, his lungs aching from the strain. He was wrestled to the ground. "No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please. Please, let me just—"*

His words were cut off when the officer jammed his knee into John's back, and he cried out.

"No! Stop it!" Sherlock shouted. "Mycroft, call off your goons! John! John, don't resist!"

John’s chest swelled when he heard Sherlock come to his defence and, despite the pain, he fought against the restraining arms.

Mycroft's commanding words cut though the sounds of the struggle.

"Do not harm Doctor Watson! He is not to be harmed in any way!"

The officer removed his knee but held tightly to the doctor's arm. After a moment, he helped John to his feet, but the struggling man was still straining against their arms, trying to get to Sherlock's side. "We need to ride together. We have to! We have to talk! Sherlock! Mycroft!" 

John Watson knew he was a man of action, someone used to the battlefield, whether in Afghanistan, a hospital, clinic, or the streets of London. Blood never made him falter, but _helplessness_ was his worst nightmare, and now, in this moment, it was in full bore, leaving him charged with adrenalin but unable to act. The Army doctor and the British Government locked eyes. Mycroft shook his head fractionally. John desperately wanted to trust Mycroft with Sherlock's welfare, but could he? After all the scorn Sherlock and Mycroft had shown toward each other? The mutual distrust? The doctor sighed heavily and his fighting stance fell away, giving way to an uneasy surrender. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a steadying breath, reclaiming his self-control.

"Let go of me," he ordered. The two officers looked to the senior Holmes, who nodded his permission. John shrugged free of their grasp and watched in pained silence as Sherlock was ushered toward the police car. As Sherlock's head was pushed down for him to enter, he turned toward John and shouted.

"It had to be done." Sherlock looked unrepentant. And desolate.

______

*This is a deliberate use of the same dialogue John spoke in trying to get to Sherlock's body after the fall.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO  
  


The cell was as barren as John's spirit, as cold and unwelcoming as the day was frigid. He'd been locked up for almost 24 hours since the shooting of Charles Augustus Magnussen. He hadn't been allowed visitors or to contact anyone, and after his interrogation, he saw only his expressionless, tight-lipped keepers. The government's security holding cell was outfitted only slightly better than a New Scotland Yard cell; better mattress and blanket, cleaner commode and sink, but in the end, just as oppressive. He should have been exhausted from the events of the last day, but he was drained more than tired. His food trays lay untouched. He saw no way out of Sherlock's situation. When he heard footsteps approaching, he didn't bother sitting up until he heard the sound of the cell's electric lock click open.

Mycroft. Of course it was Mycroft, clean-shaven, in an unwrinkled suit and wearing a blank expression. He stood just inside the cell door, looking oddly exposed and vulnerable without his umbrella.

John gestured to his surroundings. "Quite the joke, this. A box. I'm in a box. On Boxing Day." 

Mycroft didn't react. "As anticipated, you have been cleared of any complicity in the death of Mr. Magnussen... And the issue of your illegal gun possession has been 'resolved'."

There wasn't even a flicker of relief across John's face. He slowly got to his feet.

"So, how many pieces of your soul did you have to trade for that?"

"Your sarcasm in this situation is not appreciated."

"Who said it was sarcasm?"

"Hmm." Mycroft Holmes' expression was unreadable but he tilted his head fractionally, a tacit "you're welcome".

Mycroft ventured further into the cell. "You are free to go."

"Not until I see Sherlock."

"I cannot allow that."

"Allow?"

"Yes, John. Allow. Permit. Shall I fetch a dictionary so that you may look it up?"

John's anger simmered dangerously beneath a veneer of control and he stepped closer to the senior Holmes.

"I need to see him."

"You may not. That is, you cannot. He is not here. He has been detained at another facility."

"'Facility’. You pompous arse. You can't even say gaol? Prison? Cell? You have to sanitise it? Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what being in a _cell_ again could do to him after the last time? And wherever else he was _detained_?" John spit out the word with as much disdain as he could muster.

A flicker of surprise crossed the elder Holmes' face. "Sherlock told you?"

"No." 

"Then how did you—?"

"His wrists. I _observed_. I'm a doctor, in case you'd forgotten. I know ligature scars when I see them. Some of the scars were old. Some new." He took a steadying breath but it didn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "Some were _very_ new."

Mycroft sighed.

"John--"

"Mycroft, if you tell me to calm down, I will punch you in your poncy face, so help me God."

Mycroft took several steps toward the side wall and away from John's balled fist. John felt some grim satisfaction at Mycroft's reaction and he made no effort to hide it. Even so, John stepped as far away from the man as he could get. When he reached the opposite wall, he put a hand out, steadied himself and let his head drop. His eyes were closed.

"Sherlock said nothing to you about the events that occurred during his hiatus?"

"Another euphemism. Lovely. How likely do you think he'd be to talk about it? Eh?..." He took a calming breath then turned to face him. "The terrorist plot."

Mycroft was thrown by the non sequitur. "I beg your pardon?"

"That's when I knew. When we were looking at the underground maps, and again in the carriage car, his cuffs rode up... I saw his wrists." John's haggard eyes narrowed as they met the penetrating gaze of the elder Holmes. "Afterwards, I told him I'd seen the scars, the bruising." _And,_ he thought, _signs of PTSD: flinching at sudden sounds, the raw emotions just below the surface, the thousand yard stare in those bloodshot eyes when he thought no one was watching._ "Totally ignored it, shut me down completely. And when I pressed him? Well, you know your brother. How do you imagine that went?" ~~~~

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, then nodded in understanding.

"I've acted as Sherlock's doctor more times than I can count. Don't you think I should have known about his injuries— _two years_ of injuries?"

"Yes, he should have discussed them—"

"I'm talking about _you_ , Mycroft!" he yelled. "You didn't think to tell me? Didn't think your brother might have lingering after-effects?"

"Sherlock is quite protective of his privacy, sometimes at great cost to himself. I'm not at all certain that _I_ know the extent of what he endured. Still, perhaps I was...remiss...in not speaking with you."

"I will never understand how you Holmes think."

"Undoubtedly."

John huffed out a grim laugh. 

The silence stretched and John was calm until he wasn’t. In a flurry of motion, John launched himself toward the bed and hurled the pillow at the wall.

"Christ, Mycroft, what the hell was he thinking?"

"He's already told you that. Mary—"

"Don't go there." John's warning tone should have stopped him, but Mycroft only paused, then continued in measured tones.

"This was all done to protect her. And by way of that, you. And the child... Of course, if Mary had acted earlier or been successful in her attempt on Magnussen's life, we would not be in this unfortunate position now."

"Don't you think I know that? Of course I know that!" 

John was breathing hard, and he resumed pacing, the anger bleeding out of him. Finally, John whispered the question he had been trying to avoid.

"What's going to happen to him?"

"I don't know."

John's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"What do you mean, you don't know? Surely they'll be a trial?"

Mycroft's awkward silence more than answered the question.

"What? You can't cover this up. He killed a man. _Murdered_ him. In front of witnesses. You can't ignore... He—" John couldn't get himself to even say Magnussen's name—"was head of a major news outlet for Christ's sake. Even you can't sweep this under one of your vast governmental rugs."

Mycroft looked at him with infinite patience which made John want wanted to wipe that look right off his face. ~~~~

"What is going to happen to my brother has yet to be decided. I have...the authorities have several options."

"Let me guess. None of which you're at liberty to discuss."

"Understand, John, that there are elements at play here that you cannot begin to imagine, areas where even I cannot intervene." There was a tell-tale slump in that iron posture, pained creases around those brilliant eyes, which vanished as quickly as they had appeared. John bit back the harsh comment that had been on the tip of his tongue. For the first time since Appledore, John realised that someone else was hurting.

"I can go, then." More a statement than a question.

"There is a car waiting for you outside."

A brusque jerk of John’s head was his only acknowledgement. The atmosphere in the cell suddenly seemed claustrophobic. He scrubbed his hands across his tired face before shrugging past Holmes. His footsteps echoed down the sterile corridor...

...leaving Mycroft alone in the cell.


End file.
